The Perfect Red
by Dark Raven Wrote
Summary: Ginny knows Harry, but she doesn't really know him. Written for hd owlpost 2013


**Title:** The Perfect Red  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Ginny knows Harry, but she doesn't really _know_ him.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 800 words  
><strong>Rating:<strong> G  
><strong>Contains:<strong> Nothing note-worthy  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Many thanks to _shadowofrazia _for the last minute beta. I hope you like your gift, _nenne. _Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year (or other relevant festive cheer). Thank you to _vaysh11 _and _Kitty_fic _ for running _hd_owlpost_ so well, it was a pleasure to take part.

The Perfect Red

"Harry?"

Ginny catches him on his way out of the common room one morning, and there isn't really much he can do about it. That isn't to say seeing Ginny is particularly a _bad_ thing. It's more…inconvenient at this exact time and tedious that he knows precisely what she's about to ask.

"Should we go out this weekend? Chat over a butterbeer or something?" And it isn't necessarily that she's ridiculously over eager to get back together with him, or that she can't hide it because she's so besotted. It's more that she's trying to make him feel obligated, like ever since she clapped eyes on him in her mother's kitchen all those years ago, it's his lot in life to marry her straight out of school and start a family that will never stop growing.

For one thing, he thinks he's had quite enough obligations thrust on his shoulders for one life time, thank you very much, and for another, he hasn't seen her in a rose tinted romantic light since...well. Since _they_ started.

And a large family might sound nice—people seem to expect him to want one 'given his upbringing,' whatever that means—but he wouldn't mind. He prefers not to think that far ahead. There's a whole decade of young adulthood spread out before him, waiting to be enjoyed and taken for granted. He'd rather spend it with someone he's comfortable with than make rash decisions regarding Future Fatherhood Ideals.

And if there _isn't_ a nest of little ones waiting for him in his future? Well then it'll be his decision, not somebody else's.

"I don't know, Ginny. I don't think I'm ready to talk about that yet." It isn't an outright lie. He isn't ready; he just intends on making different confessions to her.

"Well. It doesn't have to be like a date. We could just go as friends." Except it would be _exactly_ like a date and nothing he could ever say would stop her from secretly thinking so. She must see his dubious expression, however much he tries to wipe it from his face, because she quickly changes the subject. No doubt she'll ask him again, though, so he should be thankful for the small mercies of today rather than fretting over the tortures of tomorrow. "Did you like your present?" She asks with a childlike joy that makes her look so young and innocent, like the war never happened. At least in this, she has become an expert at hiding her true feelings.

"It was...nice," he says, trying not to make it sound too flat. And it was, nice that is. Thoughtful. But he knew her intention as soon as he unwrapped it, even though it's a perfectly acceptable, just-friends gift. A shirt for Merlin's sake. It was more...

"It's your favourite colour, right? I picked it out especially!" Her eyes are alight, like she's certain she's got something right. And she has, sort of. Red is his favourite, but—and he tried not to be picky, but with her meaning so clear it was hard not to be disappointed—not quite _that _red. It's a bright, Christmas red. Loud and brash and _blaring_. So, no, actually, it isn't his favourite colour.

"It was really thoughtful, Ginny. Thanks," he says, forcing enthusiasm behind the words and hoping it doesn't sound too fake. "Really." His teeth feel like they're coated in grit when he smiles. "I hope you liked your present too."

He stands there through her nodding – so earnestly his shoulders twitch just watching it – and making idle conversation. When he finally escapes towards the staircase he feels guilty for being so glad.

When Harry looks up from the Blessing Candle later that night, it is to a hesitant, unsure smile that is only for him. Malfoy isn't one to show tenderness freely; he's always been told it's weak. So to see it in the low light of their secret little room in the cold, drafty dungeons is another gift in itself. And his eyes are bright like Harry has only learned they can be in the last few weeks.

It washes all that guilt away.

This thing between them is new and fragile, but he likes it anyway.

And the candle is the perfect shade of red.


End file.
